


so sweet, she makes my mouth water

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Meetings, Humor, Kissing, Matchmaking, Modern Westeros, POV Jon, Sensuality, Sex Education, Sexual Content, Touching, i asked the guy ‘why you so fly?’ he said ‘funky cold medina’, yes sansa apples are a real subcategory of apple and yes that is relevant to this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-04 15:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17900765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: When Jon agrees to teach a class on sexual exploration at his psuedo-uncle Oberyn’s rec centre, the last thing he expects is to meet someone with whom he can do a little exploring himself.That is, until his mate Theon’s old friend Sansa Stark moves to town.(title from “i want candy,” by the strangeloves)





	so sweet, she makes my mouth water

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: this was for real inspired by key & peele’s ‘cunnilingus class’ skit, bc jon snow ghostwrote that, but then it somehow spiraled into this whole... Thing... (that i hope you all like! but h o n e s t l y for such a goofy precedent this went waaaaay in its own direction bc i have no self-control, whoops)

Shortly after Jon is born, his father is suddenly stricken with an acute sense of guilt over having left his wife for another woman, and so he disappears from the Snows’ two-bedroom with nothing but a note on the kitchen table for explanation. Lyanna hadn’t even read the whole thing before she chucked it in the bin, along with any belongings Rhaegar had left behind, and then took the bin out back and promptly lit its contents on fire.

As it happened, Rhaegar’s wife had done likewise, and taken their two children to live with her elder brother in Dorne. Both women agreed to keep in contact with the Targaryen heir, if only for the cheques he owed them every month, and further agreed that he didn’t deserve any better than that.

When Jon is four, his mother takes him to Dorne as well. Elia Martell (formerly Targaryen) had not blamed Lyanna for the affair, and they had been in regular contact, as they wished for their children to know of each other; and then, as the years passed, the mothers thought they ought to grow up together, too. Lyanna and Jon Snow had been welcomed into the Martells’ Water Garden estate with open arms.

All of Jon’s memories were of this little but extravagant pseudo-family, and in the end things had worked out just fine for himself and his single mother, despite those rough few years up north.

And yet… Well, his origins leave him a little wary of romance.

When he’s eighteen, he enrolls at the University of Sunspear, where he meets Theon Greyjoy. The other boy hails from the Iron Islands, but had been raised in Winterfell, near Jon’s first home. That, coupled with their shared sob stories of fathers who didn’t want them, make the pair fast friends — even if Jon finds Theon occasionally irritating, and Theon more than occasionally thinks Jon’s a broody bastard.

Theon doesn’t have the same reservations as Jon when it comes to love, either. That’s made clear many an evening, when Jon’s locked out of their dorm while Theon entertains another guest, or sometimes two. A red rubber band on the door handle means Jon should find another place to sleep that night.

By the time four years have gone by, Jon thinks paying for student housing might have been the worst financial decision of his young life. What a waste, no matter how comfortable the window seat on the third floor of the library turned out to be.

Now, though, Jon’s twenty-nine and he’s got his own bed in his own place, and he refuses to split a flat with Theon no matter how much they’ll allegedly save on rent. He works from home as a computer programmer, which is dull going but it manages to keep him sharp, and he hasn’t got to talk to anyone if he doesn’t want to. He’s never been overly fond of the southron sun, either, so it’s a relief to have a viable excuse to spend eight hours a day indoors.

“You cannot be satisfied in that line of work,” Oberyn — Jon’s uncle, for all intents and purposes — says with a sense of finality he has no business boasting, and yet he does, because the man is just that self-assured.

Jon shrugs. “It pays the bills.”

“Pah!” Oberyn waves a dismissive hand, adorned with at least one ring on each finger. “You sit cooped up in that apartment day in, day out. You’re never going to meet anybody.”

“I already know Theon. I’ve about had my fill of people.”

Of course, Jon knows plenty others. The Martells’ social circle spans miles, and his siblings insist on introducing him to everyone. And though he works from home, he still meets his co-programmers — Sam, Edd, Grenn, and Pyp — for drinks a couple of times a month. He’s even dated a bit, though it never lasts. He seems to have inherited his mother’s sorry luck in love. She and Elia have been living happily together for a few years now, but it had taken some time for them to get to that point. Jon’s not fool enough to think that it will eventually work out for him too just because.

Much as a romantic at heart as he is, Jon had closed himself off emotionally from any true and lasting relationship for too long, believing that it was romantic attachment that had landed his mother in a world of heartache over his father so many years ago. True, Lyanna had bounced back quickly and has long since recovered, but Jon knew it had stung all the same. So he had decided, at far too young an age, that love wasn’t for him and that was that.

He tried to make it up to his partners by being more uninhibited and unselfish with his body than he was with his heart, but sexual intimacy alone couldn’t sustain any of his relationships. He hadn’t felt anything real for any of them, and they’d all grown tired of waiting on him.

Jon understands that this is a problem he needs to work on. Oberyn, however, seems to think it’s, more than anything else, a solution.

“You know,” he begins slowly, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth, “I’ve heard it through the grapevine that you are, ah, quite the gentleman behind closed doors.”

Jon snorts. “You haven’t got to speak in riddles, we’re both adults.”

“He hears you give good head,” Ellaria, Oberyn’s long-time paramour, chirps as she joins them on the veranda. She perches on the arm of Oberyn’s chair and slides a hand across his shoulders. “You’ve left many a pleased woman in your wake, so it would seem.”

“Not that many.” Jon scrubs at the stubble on his cheek. “I dunno what the two of you are getting at, but can I suggest you talk to Theon instead, about whatever it is?”

“Oh, we already have,” Oberyn assures him. “He’s eager to help.”

Jon grimaces. “This sounds like it’s gonna be weird.”

Ellaria sighs. “You Northerners are so prudish.”

“Right, well…” Jon trails off. He doesn’t bother reminding her that he’s lived in Dorne for the vast majority of his life. To the Martells, the Snows are simply too entrenched in all things northern to ever truly be anything else. Considering his aversion to the white-hot sun and sand of the city, Jon thinks they must be onto something.

What they’re onto at the moment, though, is something else altogether.

Never ones to beat around the bush overmuch, Oberyn and Ellaria unveil their plans for the real estate they’d just purchased in the city’s capital: Adult education, of the double entendre persuasion. Classes on erotic massage and sensual couples’ cooking, the arts of seduction and self-love, shops selling books, candles, oils, toys and treats, and —

“A course on women’s pleasure,” Ellaria finishes. “I’ll take the Tuesday slot, but we thought you and Theon could take Fridays.”

“When the weekend tourists come down,” Oberyn adds. He squeezes Ellaria’s hip. “My lover, my light, my —”

”Please don’t start snogging in front of me again,” Jon nips this in the bud. It’s a dull task but a necessary one, as they’d already started giving each other those looks after just a smattering of pet names. 

 _Seven heavens, seven_   _hells…_

Oberyn has mercy on him, and continues with nothing more than an innocent peck on Ellaria’s hand. 

“She will teach the girls pole dancing, and their men can walk down the hall to learn how they might please their women once they retire to their hotel rooms for the night, hm?”

“Hm,” Jon echoes. He’s got nothing else to say.

“We’ll pay you,” Ellaria offers.

“Hm.” Still nothing.

“You might meet someone,” Oberyn suggests.

To that, Jon rolls his eyes. He doesn’t want to meet anyone — or, perhaps more honestly, he wants to meet _The_ _One_. Deep down, maybe that’s what he’s always wanted, even when he’s spent so long pretending otherwise. He wants to meet the person who makes him want to tear down those walls he’d erected to protect himself. He’d never wanted to do that before; he’s starting to think he’ll never know how it feels.

And he’s certainly not going to experience it in the middle of a lecture about how to properly go down on a woman.

That would be just… ridiculous.

Still, he says “I’ll do it” before either of them can try another angle that’s not going to convince him.

“Not because of anything you said.” Jon points a finger at his uncle, who’s starting to look too smug for his liking. “But because if I leave Theon alone to do something like this, he’s just going to quote ‘Funky Cold Medina’ the entire time.

“And yeah, you’ll be paying me,” he continues before either Oberyn or Ellaria can singsong-ask _why are you so fly?_ , as they’d clearly been about to do.

Oberyn chuckles. “So amenable, my nephew is. I think perhaps you do see some merit in my words, no? After all, you never know who might come to sit in on such a class taught by two strapping young men.”

“Right, yeah, I’m good for business, I get it.” Jon knows he’s no slouch in the looks department, but he doesn’t like to talk about it because he’s not a prick.

He leans back in his chair, in an attempt to convey a sense of ease he doesn’t at all feel. “You know I’m only saying yes to this because I know you won’t leave me alone otherwise, right?”

Ellaria shrugs one elegant shoulder and Oberyn says, “As long as you’re doing it, dear boy, the _why_ of it all makes no difference to me.”

No surprises there. That’s the way of things in Jon’s family: no one cares a whit about anything, so long as they get their way.

So, no, Jon hadn’t expected Oberyn to care any which way why he agreed to take on the class. He only wonders whether or not he’s going to regret it.

 

* * *

 

Six weeks into the course and so far he’s not regretting it as he feared. Then again, Jon has a tendency to expect the worst of things when, ultimately, they end up just fine.

But he has to admit, things are going well. Attendance is healthy and the money’s good, and — though he’ll never admit this particular part aloud — there is something to be said for getting out of his flat on Friday nights. Going in and out as much as he was now made him realize that the pungent scent of too many evenings of spicy Dornish takeaway lingered, and he’d deep-cleaned the place until it smelled fresh, like pine and lemon.

He’s learned to leave the windows open when he eats, too, so suffice it to say that the class has taught him a thing or two as well, even if his once-stuffy apartment has nothing to do with the subject matter.

“Mate…” Theon shakes his head as Jon relays all of this to him, as they wait on their participants to arrive on the sixth Friday. “You need to get laid.”

“What?” Jon pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Uh” — Theon chuckles a little as he writes his name in swirling script on the room’s dry-erase board — “you’re way too amped about cleaning your apartment, that’s what. Doesn’t talking about this shit every week sort of rev your engine some? If you don’t have blue balls by now I’m calling you a medical marvel.”

“That’s not a _medical_ issue, first of all,” Jon scoffs. He nudges his glasses again. “And I — alright, fuck you and all, but — it’s just talk, isn’t it? Sort of clinical. It doesn’t really do it for me. Anyway, I’m not, I’m not dating or anything, so I haven’t got anyone to think about doing any of this to, so…”

He shrugs. He pulls an apple from his bag and takes a loud, crunchy bite of it so he doesn’t have to try to explain himself any further.

As usual, Theon sees right through him and refuses to cut him a break.

“When are you gonna let me set you up with someone?” he asks, the ages-old question he’d broached at least once every couple of months since they’d met. It’s been about ten years and Jon’s never given him the okay, but Theon just can’t take a hint.

“We know all the same people.”

“Fuck you, we don’t.” Theon draws a big red heart on the board next, then doodles inside of it: _J_  +  _?_ like he thinks that’s clever or something. “All you gotta do is say yes, man, and I’ll deliver the girl of your dreams on a silver platter.”

Jon points with his apple as he talks around another bite. “That sounds vaguely cannibalistic and I want no part of it.”

Theon’s phone chimes before he can tell his friend to piss off. He taps out a response, no doubt arranging another date for himself after class lets out. He usually has a date at the weekend, and lately it’s been hitting Jon how lonely he is. Maybe Oberyn was right…

He decides to lock that thought away into the deepest recesses of his mind, lest Oberyn ever find out and then regale him with an endless litany of _I-told-you-so’s_ , and keeps eating his apple. 

He crunches obnoxiously on the last bite, tosses the core, and pulls another one from his bag, all to Theon’s immense disgust.

“How many of those have you got in there?” he asks, more incredulously than the situation calls for, if you ask Jon. But then, Theon has a stubborn aversion to anything healthy; he’d probably be happier living off a lifetime supply of Swedish fish if anyone would let him.

Jon shrugs. “Half-dozen, maybe.”

“For the love of god, _why_?”

“I like them.” He peels off the sticker and reads it through another mouthful. “‘Sansa apples,’ they’re called. They’re really fuckin’ good, mate.”

That, for some reason, makes Theon do a double-take.

“Sorry,” he says, as a slow, cat-like grin spreads across his face, “they’re called what, now?”

Jon eyes him curiously, maybe even a little apprehensively, because he’s no idea what’s happening but it seems as though something is. “Sansa apples.”

“Well, speak of the devil…”

“Theon, what —”

He’s interrupted by the _rat-a-tat-tat_  of knuckles on the doorframe. With one last glance at a must-be-scheming Theon, Jon spins in his seat atop the desk to see who’s knocking, and nearly chokes on his apple. A bit of juice dribbles out of his mouth, along with what must be an instinctual bit of drool as well, because —

 _Holy_ _shit._

There’s a sudden, raucous drum solo pounding in Jon’s ears, and a girl standing in the doorway. She’s leaning in with one foot poised slightly behind the other, in a pretty patterned sundress with her long red hair up, a touch frizzed by the early evening humidity. Her face is pink, shoulders freckled, and her legs long, bare, and Jon immediately fantasizes about what they’d feel like wrapped around his shoulders.

 _Talk about revving my engine_ _…_

“Jon” — Jon’s not looking at him, but he can hear that stupid smarmy grin in Theon’s voice as he makes the introductions — “meet Sansa. She hasn’t got a boyfriend.”

“Really?” She cocks her head at him. “Is that how you introduce me to people?”

“Yup.”

Jon swallows. It does nothing to rid him of the odd buzzing in his ears. “Uhm — hi.”

“Hi.” Sansa smiles sweetly. Sweeter than those apples of his, even. She tosses a look at Theon then. “Don’t think you’re not in trouble just because your friend is here, by the way.”

 _Ah, fuck._ Jon really hopes this isn’t the date Theon has for tonight. Or ever.

“What?” Theon says, all innocence. “I told you we had class at six-thirty.”

“No, you told me you had class _until_ six-thirty,” Sansa counters. “A distinct difference, that. I saw the schedule posted in the lobby and I’ve been furious with you for a good five minutes.”

Theon says to Jon, “She really hits her stride at ten.”

“Oh, shove off. I’ve been doing a juice cleanse with Marg and your sister, it’s been hell and I’m starving.”

“And where _is_ Westeros’ favorite couple this fine evening?”

“Breaking in their hotel bed, I’d wager. They’re so hopped up on vacation hormones that they won’t notice if I come back in a food coma and-or pleasantly tipsy.”

“And I swear that I’ll help you to fulfill this, the wildest of your dreams.” Theon places a hand over his heart in a solemn vow. “You’ll just have to sit in on the class first — won’t she, Jon?”

Oh, he can _definitely_ hear that smug smarmy grin in Theon’s voice now. The man takes no pity, either, and Jon can do nothing but stare dumbly at Sansa as she agrees to stay but “I’m not happy about it.”

 _I could make you happy about it_ , Jon thinks. He tries to bury the images that follow, else he wind up with a stiff cock and nothing to be done for it. Yet here he is, looking Sansa up and down like he’s planning the route his mouth is so eager to take, as if that’s going to diffuse the situation in his pants.

He needs to get it together. But the drum solo is still going strong, and he’s pretty sure he’s a lost cause.

_Oh, well._

Theon bids Sansa to forgive him, and if she’s truly wasting away to nothing, then — “Jon’s got a whole stash of _you_ apples in his bag.”

“You can have one, if you want,” he blurts, because of course he’s just going to clumsily blurt something at her as soon as he finds his voice.

But at least he didn’t tack on his very sincere thought that _I’ll give you literally anything you want all the time forever_ , because that perhaps would have been too much.

“That’s sweet, thanks.” Sansa gives him another smile. It’s a good thing Jon’s sitting down, otherwise he’s sure that smile would knock him right to his knees. “But after the two weeks I’ve had on this cleanse, the last thing I want is anything of any nutritional value whatsoever. There’s a snack machine down the hall that’s got my name on it.”

“Alright.” Theon swipes Jon’s apple, takes a bite, then tosses it back at him, dissatisfied. “Do you want some money, love?”

“I’ve got money.” She wrinkles her nose, but it does nothing to hide her teasing smirk. “Who do you think you are, anyway? My sugar daddy?”

Jon licks his lips.  _You could call me daddy._

Alright, so he’s not going to get it together and he’s just going to have to learn to live with that.

His gaze stays glued to the open door, though Sansa’s disappeared from it by now, in search of proper sustenance. Theon’s chuckle snaps him out of it. Jon wastes no more time in whacking his friend upside the head.

“ _Ow_ , what the hell?” Theon rubs the pain from his skull. “Dick.”

“What the fuck?” Jon demands. “Where’ve you been hiding her?”

Before he gets any answers, though, someone else butts in and wants to know the same. The class is starting to file in, and one of them — Marillion, a self-proclaimed musician who shows up to the class every time a girl dumps him, yet he’s clearly not learning a thing — jerks his thumb towards the door.

“That ginger out there?” he says. “Who’s that fine piece of —”

“Jon’s wife,” Theon says at once, so effortlessly that for a moment even Jon thinks it’s true. (He _wishes_.) “Better watch it.”

Marillion eyes Jon skeptically. “You haven’t got a wedding ring.”

“That’s because he spends all his time with his hands so far up her skirt, any jewelry would be a safety hazard.” Theon rolls his eyes, as if all of this should be obvious. “You want to explain that to the gynecologist? Didn’t think so. Move along now, take a seat.”

Jon scrubs a hand over his face, probably a vibrant shade of cherry-red by now. He closes his eyes, counts to ten, as the class continues to get settled. He’s all out of sorts now — had been since he’d looked up to see Sansa leaning in the doorway in her periwinkle dress, all smiles and a touch of sunburn. He wonders if she could us some aloe vera for that, and almost immediately wants to punch himself in the face.

He drops his hand and rounds on Theon. “You can’t just — how’d she feel if she heard you telling people she’s my wife? I’ve met her all of two minutes.”

“She won’t mind.” Theon shrugs. He swipes at the question mark he’d scribbled on the board, and replaces it with a curly _S_. Jon decides it looks much better that way. “She thinks you’re fit.”

“She — sorry?” Jon blinks, confused, before it all clicks into place. “Theon, is, is that the girl you’ve wanted to set me up with? Bloody hell, I’d’ve said yes first thing if you’d told me, way to bury the lead on that one —”

“Oi, not quite,” his friend stops him with another chuckle. “I’ve known Sansa near all my life, she’s my best mate. Besides you, I guess. I’ve told you about her.”

“Not enough to prepare me!”

And isn’t _that_ the truth. Theon had told plenty of stories featuring plenty of supporting cast members — Sansa’s name had been dropped enough times for Jon to remember it — but Theon had never really told anything _about_ _her_ , because usually he’s too caught up talking about himself.

He makes up for it now, though, so Jon can hardly complain, even when Theon starts it off by telling him to keep it in his pants. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to do that, should things go well, but he files the rest of the information away:

Sansa Stark. Twenty-six. Second oldest of five. Her father had taken a chance on Theon, much in the same way the Martells had on Jon and his mother. Ten years old at the time, Sansa had had a soft spot for the poor boy whose own father hadn’t wanted him, so she decided they would be best friends and that had been it. She’s a caregiver, Theon says, and then quite pointedly adds that it’s about time someone took care of her.

Jon thinks that he can do that. He doesn’t want to jump the gun here, but… Too late. He’s not a bit sorry for it, either.

She’s fond of romantic comedies, motown, and lemon-based desserts. Owns approximately thirty-two sundresses (Jon is sure this is an exaggeration, but if it’s not he’s looking forward to seeing her in every one of them). Red Keep University dropout, second year, after a bad split from her boyfriend, and hasn’t had a decent one since. Completed her design degree back home in Winterfell, after which she traveled from Riverrun to the Vale and even a trip abroad to Essos to further her studies and experience. She and her friend Margaery are currently opening up shop here in Dorne, which means —

“She’s looking for a place here now,” Theon finishes, about a minute and a half before they’re due to start class.

“To live?” Jon has no idea why he asked that. He might be panicking a little bit.

“Yeah.” One eyebrow quirks up. “Why, you got a vacancy in your building?”

_Yes. In my bed, as a matter of fact._

Seven hells. Is this what it’s like to be in love? Jon’s not sure he’d recommend it, honestly, as it’s made him revert to a state of overzealous, hormonal adolescence. How is he meant to get anything done like this? 

But then, just as the clock ticks to six-thirty, he glances over to see Sansa perched on a spare desk next to the door. She’s got her legs crossed at the ankles, and a content smile as she tucks into a bag of crisps. It’s nothing spectacular or world-stopping, and yet Jon feels like his world is changing all the same.

It’s at this moment — when Sansa catches his eye and smiles, Jon’s mouth twitches up at the corner in response, and for a flash of a second it’s as if they aren’t in a room full of twenty-odd others waiting to talk about cunnilingus, for the love of god — that Theon chooses to start talking. And suddenly everything’s back to normal. Or as normal as could be expected, anyway.

“Alright, listen up, you lot of mediocre-if-you-have-high-enough-self-esteem-to-think-so wankers,” Theon calls to get the group’s attention. He snaps his fingers to add a little more theatricality to the thing. “I’m Theon, this is Jon, and we’re here to teach you how to stop being such a disappointment in bed.”

Jon lets him at it. He tends to let Theon do most of the talking; the man lives to perform. Meanwhile, Jon interjects when he’s needed, or when Theon’s train of thought goes off the rails. They plan out the lesson and do a couple of practice runs every week, but there are plenty of factors that need to be taken into account in real time: class size, the general attitude of the participants, whether or not they’re first-timers, that sort of thing.

“We used to be like all of you,” Theon continues, as he keeps up a leisurely pace, walking along the front row of tables. “Spent our nights cold coolin’ at a bar, looking for some action, but, regrettably, we couldn’t get no satisfaction. The girls were all around, but none of them wanted to get with us. They were all jockin’ at the end of the bar with some no-name chump…”

Every couple of weeks, Theon starts off with this spiel like Jon’s not going to recognize Tone Loc. This is pretty much why he agreed to help out in the first place.

“Nope.” Jon holds up a hand to stop him before he gets too far into the groove to snap out of it (which has happened on several occasions). “Cut the karaoke, Greyjoy. You don’t play around with the Funky Cold Medina.”

There’s a couple of groans and a smattering of laughs at the both of them (Sansa’s sounds like wind chimes, Jon thinks. He’d like to make her laugh some more, but he’s not particularly funny. He wonders if maybe she’s ticklish, and how soon he could find out).

“Okay, okay,” Theon agrees. “So listen, we’re here to teach you how to make your girl come. None of that put-upon fakeout shite to spare your feelings, either.”

Jon nods. “If you’re not trying to get her off, you don’t deserve to have your feelings spared, anyway.”

“What if we are trying?” Marillion wants to know.

“Eh.” Theon pulls a face. “Are you, though?”

As he’s attended more than half the classes they’ve hosted so far, Jon’s willing to bet that no, he’s not. No sense in pointing that out in front of everyone, though.

“Right.” Jon claps his hands together. “Let’s talk cunnilingus.”

Across the room, Sansa coughs on a mouthful of crisps. Jon’s eyes dart her way to find that, cough notwithstanding, she’s utterly composed save for the slight flush in her cheeks. She catches him looking and busies herself with her Diet Coke, but he thinks he detects a bit of a grin as she takes a sip.

Maybe he’ll be a little more interactive with tonight’s lesson, then.

Theon rambles off the biological facts, albeit more colorfully than any standard sex ed instructor would likely do.

“Lay off the clitoris, you fucking trolls,” he says, then turns his snapping fingers on Jon. “Tell ‘em why.”

“It hosts thousands of nerve endings,” Jon picks up. “You could stick your cock in a vacuum cleaner and still not experience the same intensity the clitoris does when you get too, er… eager with it.”

“Right-o.” Another snap of his fingers, and then Theon points to the class at large. “So calm the fuck down, you hear?”

“There’s something to be said, too, for prolonging the experience,” Jon continues. “Which is part of the point we’re trying to make. You don’t want to just go in there and, and _‘get it over with’_.” He pauses to roll his eyes at the mere thought of such blatant carelessness. “Take your time with her. This is supposed to be good for you both. Her pleasure should please you, too, and if it doesn’t then that’s a whole other discussion, and perhaps a lobotomy.”

That gets another laugh out of Sansa — a short-lived, high-pitched sort of giggle that makes her sound nervous. Jon doesn’t want to read too much into that, but his mind’s been going a mile a minute since she walked in the room and there’s no stopping it now.

It doesn’t help that he can’t stop looking at her, or what catching her eye does to his heart rate. Though it does give him a thrill to always find that she’s looking at him.

 _She thinks you’re fit_ , Theon told him. Jon should have asked him more about that.

“So what do you do when you’re not bombarding the clitoris with your inept slobbering?” Theon prompts, which does well enough to retake Jon’s focus. “There’s plenty else, and a few basic things to try.

“First off, make the alphabet with your tongue.” He gestures to Jon, who demonstrates how it’s done. Maybe he shoots another glance or two or several at Sansa as he does so. “Whichever letter gets her pulling your hair like she wants to rip it up at the roots, that’s the one you want. Stick with it, keep it goin’.”

“That goes for everything else as well,” Jon interjects. He flicks his tongue once more to relieve the tension. “Communication is key to all of it. Ask her what she wants, find out what she likes, and then do those things.”

“Got it.” Marillion turns in his seat to toss a grin at Sansa. “So, Red, what is it that you like?”

Her mouth tics into a slight grimace, but she doesn’t miss a beat; it’s as if she were expecting him to mouth off when she replies evenly, “For you to never speak to me again.”

Marillion snorts. “You’ve got that wife of yours well-trained, haven’t you, Snow?”

“Mate” — Theon lifts his gaze to the ceiling, as if in search for some divine guidance — “shut the fuck up.”

For half a moment, Sansa’s brow had creased in confusion, ostensibly as she tried to recall when precisely she’d married Jon. But in the next instant she seems to figure out it’s all some jape or other. Or, at least, she offers a reassuring smile to a very nervous Jon, and he can breathe easy. He doesn’t want her to think he’s making up rumors because he’s obsessed with her after one introduction — of course, he _is_ rather obsessed, but the actuality of it isn’t nearly as off-putting as it sounds (or Jon hopes not, anyway), and regardless he wouldn’t invent a marriage just because he thinks she’s wicked pretty.

He’s _infatuated_ , that’s all.

And, presently, pissed at Marillion.

“Another tip,” Jon says to demonstrate this fact. “Don’t refer to a woman as ‘well-trained,’ or anything else that might make her comparable to an animal. And, to reiterate what Theon said — fuck off.”

Things are back to business as usual after that, and the class wraps up half-an-hour later without anyone else putting the moves on Sansa, inadvertently or otherwise. Marillion laughs it off when he heads out with his friends, while Sansa rolls her eyes behind his back.

“Sorry about him,” Jon apologizes when she joins them at the front of the room. Theon is cleaning the dry-erase board, where a couple of lewd doodles had joined his _J_ _+_ _S_ -inscribed heart. “Most people find him charming because he can play a little guitar, but —”

“Who in Dorne doesn’t boast some musical talent?” Sansa finishes for him, then waves it off. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

Jon frowns. That doesn’t sound at all _fine_ to him.

“I’ve warned her about the men down here,” Theon adds, like that’s supposed to make him feel better. “Your brother made a special guest appearance on the list, of course.”

“Astonishing,” Jon says flatly.

Aegon did have a reputation, one that might even rival their father’s one day if he keeps it up at the rate he’s going. Yet another reason why Jon had never felt compelled to carry on the family legacy, as it were. Whether it left his mother heartbroken or Jon’s phone dinged endlessly with texts inquiring after his brother (and he never knows how these girls get his number to begin with, but he’s willing to bet Aegon hands it out because he needs a middleman that badly), the lifestyle had never held any sort of appeal to him. Not to mention, lothario that he is, Aegon had still picked up a few tips from this course, so… Well, Jon just thinks that says something about quality over quantity.

“The good news is, Jon here’s never caused a problem in his life,” Theon tells Sansa. He knocks his friend in the shoulder. “Not a peep. Which, incidentally, is good news for us all, as I’m afraid I’ll have to skip out on you tonight, love.”

“What happened to making all my wildest dreams come true?” Sansa demands, but does so in such a way that it’s clear she knows what Theon’s on about, and she’s nothing short of amused by it. “I’m still starved half to death here.”

“Some other dreams have come up.” Theon waggles his phone as it chirps with incoming messages. “You meet so many interesting women working here, you know.”

“Mhmm.” Sansa presses her lips together to hide her smile. “I’ll just bet.”

“Never fear, though. Jon can take you out,” Theon offers. There’s no hiding _his_ smirk, that’s for sure. “How’s that?”

“Um —” There’s that frantic drum solo again. Jon’s going to need to pop a few paracetamol before the night is over. “Yeah, I mean — yeah, I’ll take you out, Sansa, if, if you like.”

Because like hell is he about to say no to that. He’s mortified that Theon would spring this little plot on him, but if he’s being honest Jon would sooner kiss him than deck him for it.

 _Priorities_ , he thinks as his eyes drop to the curve of Sansa’s thigh.

“Yeah, alright,” she agrees, just about immediately, with a warmth like rich hot honey coating the words. “I’d like that, Jon, thanks.”

He looks up to meet her eye again — bright and big and blue, he could write songs about the color of them alone if he had a way with words outside the bedroom — to find her smiling again, smiling still. It’s a little more shy this time. He likes that; something about it makes hope swell in his chest, like he’d been waiting for this and now, suddenly, out of nowhere, he’s got it.

Yeah, Jon thinks while the hope settles and hums happily around his besotted heart. He could absolutely kiss Theon for this. But, with any stroke of luck, he might be able to try it on Sansa first.

 

* * *

 

It’s just past eleven P.M. when Jon thinks that, yes, god damn it, Oberyn was right about him meeting someone, and Jon can never, ever tell him. He’d surely never survive the ensuing  _a-ha! Didn’t I tell you?_ arrogance.

Sansa, though… He looks at her as they stroll the boardwalk, and he reckons she’d be worth it.

He’d taken her for dinner at one of the seaside bistros that smelled of spice and saltwater, where everything on the menu leaves a hot, curious tingle on your tongue. She’d been so happy to eat real food that she shed a couple of tears over it, and laughed at the resultant, panicked look on Jon’s face.

“I’m never doing another juice cleanse again, I promise,” she insisted, and he’d felt a little better after that.

They’d talked of home and hobbies, jobs and friends and families. Jon found there wasn’t a thing about her he didn’t like. Sansa asked about him and she listened and she laughed at his bad jokes, _genuinely_ laughed like she really did enjoy being with him as much as he did with her. Their hands touched a time or quite a few over the bread basket, the ice-water pitcher, the exchange of his peppers for her tomatoes. If she’d asked, Jon would have admitted he was doing it on purpose.

They’d drunk their way through two bottles of thick Dornish red. Jon’s face is just as flushed as the wine had been, and Sansa’s, too. Her eyes had been so bright in the low, atmospheric lights, and he thinks they must’ve hypnotized him because he’d actually gotten up to dance with her. He probably would have danced with her in any case, but the wine and the lights and the citrus scent of her hair had certainly helped things along.

The skirt of her sundress whipped around her bare legs when he spun her. And when he brought her back in, his hands skimmed her thighs to the lively beat of the music. Everywhere her skin is soft and smooth and _so_ warm, from the sun she’d soaked up that afternoon and the drinks they’d shared tonight.

The floor had gotten almost too crowded to move — unless Jon wanted to throw all respectability to the wind and grind on her right there, which he _did_ , but he thought that might be worth a slap, if Sansa had felt so inclined — so they’d left for some air and a bit more privacy. The boardwalk was still bustling late on a Friday night, but they could talk more comfortably there all the same.

He apologizes again for Marillion’s behavior, and moreso the whole wife business orchestrated by Theon. But she takes that in stride — she’s known Theon longer than Jon has, even, so it’s no small surprise to her — and she tells him, “I could do far worse, as husbands go.”

Jon doesn’t know whether to chuckle or burst into tears of gratitude. He settles somewhere in-between, with a blush and a “Thank you, Sansa” that makes her smile softly at him.

That makes him feel bold. Her smile, the heady spiced wine, the balmy air, the water lapping upon the shore, the endless night sky bright with stars and the haze of seaside city lights… It makes him want to get closer to her, in every sense that he can.

He starts off by closing the half-step between them as they walk, to gently bump her elbow with his. It’s friendly, _chummy_ , until the backs of their hands brush and an electric current sparks back and forth. Jon feels Sansa’s fingers twitch. He doesn’t interlace them with his own, not yet, but he doesn’t stop them from touching, and neither does she.

“So, uh,” he begins, stumbling some because his boldness only goes so far, it seems, “Theon said something, um, funny earlier.”

“That’s just about his M.O., isn’t it?” Sansa points out.

“Right. Yeah. But, uh, this was, well…” Jon rubs the back of his neck. Part of him wishes he had another apple on him, so he could stuff his face to keep from blabbing on. But he’s fresh out and anyway, he’s already started talking; best to see it through. “He said that you — that you think I’m fit. So, um…”

“Ah, leave it to Theon not to keep a girl’s secrets.” She hums. “Well, yeah, I do think so. Whenever he showed me photos of the two of you, I’d tell him, ‘oi, there’s a good one.’ I suppose I shouldn’t’ve, though?”

Sansa side-eyes him questioningly, unsure, maybe, of how far she can take this flirtation before he politely declines. He has exactly zero intention of doing so, though, so he hastens to assure her of that.

 _Oi, there’s a good one._ The knowledge actually makes him giddy, and Jon Snow doesn’t exactly make it a habit to be _giddy_.

“No, I’m glad that you did. I think you’re —” Jon fumbles again. Talking’s really not his strong suit. “Listen, I’m not going to say _fit_ , only because I’m trying to impress you, but —”

“That’s alright, Jon,” she cuts in to put him at ease. “I’m quite impressed with you already.”

She’s going to make his heart melt. He can feel it. He needs to return the favor, if only he could stop tripping over his words so much.

“I can be better at this, you know.”

“Better at what?”

“I… don’t know.”

Truthfully, he does know, but he’d spoken without thinking. What was he meant to tell her?  _I can be better at talking dirty to you_? No. He can’t just say that to her. It’s true, but that’s… Jon shakes his head. It’s not the point.

Sansa must know something about the direction his thoughts have taken, it’s been bloody obvious all night, but she’s too nice to torment him over it. She only bumps his hand with hers again, and this time he takes it. Maybe he can’t say everything he’d like to just yet, but this — intertwining their fingers, stroking her hand with his thumb — is a start.

Something in the air must be making her feel bold, too, because she’s caressing his hand right back and she starts talking. Rambling, more like — she almost sounds like Jon, except that she still manages to be much more dignified about it, somehow. But that’s one of the things he likes about her. Her words alone just about make his head explode in a shower of celebratory confetti.

“I liked what you said in your lecture tonight,” she begins, reasonably enough.

“Oh?” He likes where this is going. “Which part?”

“All of it.” A giggle escapes, followed by a sigh as she gathers her thoughts.

Jon squeezes her hand in encouragement, and then suddenly it’s all coming forth in a rush that he’s scrambling to follow, not because it’s difficult to do so, but because he’s so desperate to eat up every word. She gestures a tad wildly as she talks, too, so that their joined hands as well as her free one are flexing, spinning, rotating in midair all the while.

“Look, I’ve known Theon a long time, and it doesn’t seem like it sometimes, but he treats his girls right. He never liked any of my boyfriends, he was always sort of big brother-ish about it,” she explains, “except that we could talk about our sex lives without it being strange. I used to think he put too much emphasis on the sex part of it all, but then more and more I thought that maybe I just…” She shrugs. “I thought I just had nothing to emphasize. I never had the positive experiences he had, so, right, nothing. Sometimes I still think that I’m not meant to. Like maybe it’s only positive for men, or something like that that I _know_ isn’t true, but, well…”

Another sigh as she pulls herself back together. “It was just nice to hear you talk about it. I can tell you care about what you’re doing.”

Thank the gods they’re still holding hands, otherwise Jon would be well in danger of floating up from the ground and skyward, skyward, never to be seen again.

_How about I show you how much I’d care, if you let me do those things to you?_

Oh, fuck, absolutely he cannot say that to her.

Instead, he plays the decent, gentlemanly human being and asks — however strained, warm, hot-blooded, _oh, gods_ — “Is that, is that something you’re not… used to?”

“No.” She snorts, and even that’s an elegant sound coming from her. “It’s been more like an ineffectual ten minutes, end of. If I were to summarize it, and I would like to keep it brief, if you don’t mind. It’s just that I —”

Sansa stops talking to bite her lip. The thought that she could be just as nervous as he is strikes Jon then, and that heinous yet wholesome giddiness is queued up all over again.

“I’m having a really lovely time with you,” she soldiers on. “I don’t want to spoil it by getting all macabre about my exes. I like you, very much, I don’t want to talk about them and muck this up, but — well, here I am,” she realizes aloud, with a little forced laughter. “I think I might be killing the mood right now, actually. Oh, shi— I’m sorry.”

Now, out of nowhere it seems, Sansa looks right miserable. Jon wracks his brain for anything he might have done to cause it, but her face is pink and she’s chewing on her lip, and he thinks she’s embarrassed by everything she’s told him. He just doesn’t know why she would be, especially since it has, for the most part, thrilled him to no end.

They’ve stopped walking, and Sansa looks out towards the water. “It’s getting late, maybe I should just —”

“Come back to mine,” Jon blurts without a second guess, and he doesn’t regret it. Her words are spinning ‘round and ‘round his mind:  _I like you, very much._ Well, he likes her very much, too.

When her eyes snap up to meet his, surprised, he swallows and tries again. It doesn’t come out much better, but at least he says it clearly on the second go.

“You should come back to mine. With me,” he clarifies (you know, like an idiot). “I mean, if you, if you want.”

He might be holding his breath for her answer, he’s not sure because he can’t rightly _think_ at the moment. It’s not just that frenzied drum solo in his head anymore. It’s that, and a pounding heart and sweaty palms and a dryness in his throat, a tightening in his chest, like the hope that had settled there earlier had stretched and expanded and was becoming impossible to contain, because it wanted _so_ _much_ — it yearned and burned and begged for fruition, for release.

And when Sansa’s lips — pretty and chapped by the saltwater breeze — curve into another smile, when she tells him yeah, she’ll come back to his, that hope punches straight through his heart like it’s made of no stronger stuff than papier-mâché.

But it’s a good sort of punch, so Jon can’t bother himself to mind the thrumming ache it leaves behind.

 

* * *

 

Much as he’d like to, Jon doesn’t kick open his door and haul Sansa up against it to ravish her with his mouth and hands and cock. He thinks she might have been expecting that he would, but that’s not the way Jon wants to do this. Not the first time, anyway, though of course it’s on the list for later, so long as she’s agreeable to it.

His own instruction from that evening’s class is fresh in his mind:  _T_ _ake your time with her._

It’s about time he takes his own advice.

They’re sat in his room, on his bed, legs folded and facing one another. They’ve been talking about nothing, mostly, easing back into the comfortability they’d found in each other, diffusing that hot, crackling tension from their walk by the sandy shores of Sunspear.

That is, until Jon decides to light that match anew. It’s important to him that they both be relaxed together — that’s something he’s never really had before, and he suspects Sansa hasn’t, either — but they’d come back to his flat with a purpose in mind, and it’s one Jon intends to see through. Because her words are just as fresh in his mind as his own. And so there are things he wants to show her, give her, and they’re not going to get anywhere if he doesn’t start them off sometime.

So, after a beat of silence, he says quietly, “I want to try something.”

He leans forward. Sansa’s chest hitches with a skipped breath, and his gaze falls to her sweetheart neckline. He glances up to see her eyes darken, then down to her mouth — just for a moment, to catch the anxious press of her lips — and he grins when he meets her eye again.

“Don’t be nervous,” he murmurs, and reaches behind her to switch off the light.

This time, he hears the way her breath catches, and feels it fan against his lips when she releases it.

Now he might be the one in danger of losing his nerve.

But no; no, he told her he wanted to try something, and he does. He wants to give her all those things she’s never had. And it’s not just because he wants _her_ — to touch her, to commit the lines of her body to memory, to kiss her so hard, so deep, that they couldn’t distinguish their sighs from one another — but because she makes him… She makes him want to give her everything, all those things he never wanted to give away before. Because she’s clever and sweet and unashamed of the things that make her happy, and now he wants to be one of those things and give her all the rest. It’s like all that he has belongs to her, too.

Maybe that’s mad or overeager or just really, stupidly premature, but Jon can’t make himself believe that. That’s not what this is. This, sitting here with Sansa in the dark, this is… _right_.

He only hopes that he can show her that.

The air in the room feels thicker now, with no light to guide them in smiles or gazes or any body language whatsoever. Jon’s other senses are completely in tune to Sansa: the sound of her breathing, the smell of that morning’s shampoo, the tinge of dry sweat along her hairline, under her arms and behind her knees, combined with the perfume she’d spritzed on hours and hours ago — she’s all stale citrus and musk and lingering jasmine.

It’s fucking _divine_.

Jon wets his lips. His own breathing is coming labored and louder than he’d like, but the blood is rushing in his ears so he can hardly tell.

“A little while ago you told me that all you’d ever had was ten minutes,” he reminds her. “I want to know if you’d let me give you better than that.”

A pause. Jon assumes she’s mulling it over.  _Gods help me, let her say yes._

“You want that?” she asks at length, as if that’s actually in question.

Jon doesn’t want to laugh at her, but a snort finds its way out. It’s not half as elegant as hers. “Yes, Sansa, I want that. I’m about to drive myself mad from wanting it so much.”

His thumbs find the twin pulse in her wrists, and he feels it jump.

“You can’t see me smiling,” she says, “but I wanted you to know that I am.”

“Likewise. Now, why don’t you tell me something else?” he suggests, because if he doesn’t do something soon his face is sure to split in two from smiling so much. “Tell me what you like, what you want, anything.”

“Um…” Jon can hear her swallow. It’s a faint sound, but wracked with nerves just the same.

He’ll try it another way, then: “Or I can do the talking, if you’re shy.”

Lights out was the right move, it seems. It can be hard enough to spill your desires; the darkness helps to alleviate the embarrassment, hesitation, whatever it is that’s holding you back. They’d only just met a few hours ago, after all. Jon’s ready to take this thing as far as she likes, but he needs to know, explicitly, if she wants that, too.

“I’m not shy,” Sansa contests, but she doesn’t sound put-off by his supposition. “Not once you get to know me.”

“I’m looking forward to getting to know you, then. I already am, if you want the truth. I'll give you nothing but, actually, but we can make this easier, for starters. Like this —”

Slowly, he skims his fingertips down her arm. She shivers, so he thinks he already has his answer, but he asks, anyway. His voice is rough from wanting her as he tries to feel out whether she feels the same. “Do you like it when I touch you like this?”

A sharp intake of breath, like the snap of a whip. “Yes.”

“You want me to keep going?”

“Yes.”

 _Thank the gods… That settles it. I’m going back to church._ “Good.”

He slips his hand into hers, like he had on the boardwalk. He keeps his touch light, ghosting his fingers along her skin, tracing the lines of her palm. Her hand flexes in response, and Jon’s touch turns a little more deliberate.

“I like this,” Sansa tells him after a good minute of quiet exploration.

 _Me, too._ “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like the sort of…” She clears her throat, but there’s nothing to be done about the huskiness of her voice. Jon is all the happier for it. “I like the way it feels when you hold my hand.”

“So do I.” He laces their fingers together then, and pulls hers to his lips so he can kiss them, one by one. “This alright?”

“I like this, too.”

That keeps him going. He trails his lips across her knuckles and up to her fingertips, down her palms, all so very slowly. He flicks his tongue against her pulse and feels it jump again. His breath is coming in hot, short bursts upon her skin as he continues the journey up to her mouth. Up into the crook of her elbows, where he plants kisses to one while his thumb strokes circles into the other. His free hand moves to her waist, using his grip as leverage to pull her just a mite closer and then another, the closer his lips get to hers.

When he reaches her neck, Jon loses a bit of his carefully crafted control. He parts his lips and kisses her hard, just beneath her ear. Sansa responds with a soft moan that’s belied by the way her body jerks into his, the way she grasps his shoulder, like the thought of letting go had never existed. He slides his hand across her back until he’s clutching her other hip, and holding her fast against him.

In the dark, every touch is felt more, every breath comes more sharply. She smells sweeter, feels softer, and his chest hurts more with the rapid, near-frantic pounding of his heart. Everything is just… _more_.

So he asks her, hoarse and imploring, “What else do you want me to do, Sansa?”

Her hand twists into his hair as her face turns towards his. Her breath is ragged and sweet when she answers, “Kiss me.”

“I have been,” Jon murmurs with a grin, but he does as she bids and takes her mouth before she can say anything else.

She’s better than those apples he’d had earlier. Sweet, tart, tangy… and he can have her as often as he likes; he’ll never run out. She’ll never be at a loss for him, either. Jon’s more than willing to give himself over to her any way she likes, any time she’d like it.

Sansa kisses him like she knows him, like she doesn’t even need to ask what he likes because it’s just what she does naturally. She tugs at his curls and her tongue traces his lips, to urge them further apart so they can take the kiss deeper, so she can know him better and he can find out everything there is to know about her in kind. Her body yields beneath every touch and, instinctively, Jon’s presses closer to give her what she wants. She pulls at the collar of his shirt and he wants to yank the thing off so he can feel her hands on his hot, bare skin.

He coaxes her backwards, until she’s laying against his comforter and he’s hovering over her. Still kissing, still touching, her back arches and her chest molds to his. The press of her breasts against him makes his cock twitch.

His hand moves to cup one, but first he sweeps a thumb across a still-clothed nipple, making her shiver when he asks if he can touch her. Jon can’t see her nod, but he can feel it in the air between them. When he accommodates them both, he groans and so does she. His other hand follows suit.

“God, your tits are fantastic,” he rumbles into her jaw as he lays kisses there.

“So are your hands,” Sansa replies. She practically purrs when, at once, those hands knead and he sucks on her earlobe. “Your mouth, too.”

“I’m only getting started, sweet girl.”

She shivers when he says that. Jon can’t be sure if it’s the promise in his words or something else, but he has a feeling it’s more to do with the latter. He grins into the next kiss he gives her.

“Do you like that?” he wants to know. “‘Sweet girl’? I could call you other things, too.”

One of his hands ventures downwards, to brush the short hem of her sundress. He remembers how it had spun around her legs when they danced, how it hitched up when she sat atop that desk during class that evening. He’d gotten a good look at those legs, and now he wants to get his face between them.

“As long as you remember my name,” Sansa tries to joke. A difficult feat, considering the way she’s kissing his neck right now. But who the fuck is Jon to judge her?

“Oh, I remember everything I’ve learned about you so far,” Jon assures her. “Theon let me in on a few choice things, too.”

“I’ll let you put your hands up my skirt right now if you promise never to mention Theon when we’re in bed together again.”

“He’d be so insulted.” Jon chuckles, but it hurts a bit to force it when he’s trying not to hump her leg like some kind of animal. It takes a _lot_ of concentration. “But yeah, you’re right, I concede.”

And with that, he flips her skirt up and palms her cunt — swathed in a scrap of silk and lace, if he’s guessing correctly. He could switch the light back on to find out for sure, but if everything goes to plan he’ll have seen Sansa in all of underwear within the next month. Right at this particular moment, he’s got other things to attend to.

He runs a hand over the lace. “Has anyone ever sucked on your tits while they’ve fucked you with their fingers?”

When she answers no, Jon is legitimately surprised. Who the fuck doesn’t do that? Besides going down on her, (naturally), that was the first thing he’d imagined when he’d met Sansa earlier. Honestly, who the fuck’s she been dating?

“Don’t answer that,” Jon decides, even after he’s asked the question aloud. She’d giggled, but it turns to a moan when he shoves his hand down her panties and the other tugs aside her low-cut neckline. “I’ll just — I’ve got it from here on out.”

Her bra is made of the same material as her panties, thin and flimsy and barely-there, which works just as well since Jon hasn’t got to remove it yet for her to feel his tongue. He laps at her through the material, and his fingers tease between her legs. Her skin is warm and her cunt is hot. He wants to taste her there, too — her tits, her pussy, her mouth… He ardently wishes he had more than one mouth himself, so that he could do it all at once.

Sansa pulls at his shirt, pushing her hands up it to explore his chest. Jon sits up just enough to take it off. He tosses it blindly across the room before he takes her lips again, meanwhile his hand never stops working at her beneath that dress. He snaps the band of her panties, making her jerk upwards, and he slips a second finger inside of her.

“You want me to take these off you?”

When she says yes, Jon might admittedly get a little excited, as the material rips loud and clear in his haste to get her half-naked.

“Shite — sorry.”

“I don’t care,” she says, breathless and sincere. “I can buy more.”

_Fuck me, I’ll buy them for you._

She’s so tight and wet, thrusting his fingers inside of her is making his eyes cross and his cock hard. He wants to get his tongue inside of her, too, trace the alphabet in her pussy and find out which letter makes her toes curl.

“I want to go down on you,” he pants into their kiss. His hand picks up its ministrations. “Can I?”

He’s begging for it, for her. It’s dead obvious, and he hadn’t done a thing to make it less so. From what she’s told him, Jon thinks it a safe bet to assume no one’s ever begged for her before. Maybe to get their own cock sucked again when they’ve done nothing in return, but that’s more like petulant whining, in his opinion, and it doesn’t count.

Sansa doesn’t respond straightaway. Jon rather hopes she doesn’t have to think about this too much, but once a few seconds tick by he thinks that perhaps he’s shocked her into silence.

“Sansa,” he prompts her, “baby, it’s dark in here, I can’t read your face. I need you to tell me.” He traces the tip of his nose along the line of her jaw. “If you want me, I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” she says again, and every time it drives Jon just a little more wild than it did the time before. “Yeah, I want you, and I want you to — to do whatever it is you’ve been thinking about.”

He’s not actually sure they’ll have time for all of it. He’s going to have to go back to work at some point, eventually, but then again, this is what sick days are for. So he’ll _make_ the time, god damn it.

“I’ve been thinking about making you come,” he murmurs, ghosting his lips over hers with every word. He circles her clit once, twice, with his thumb, and then he takes his mouth on a trek back down her body.

He rucks up her dress as he goes, and her hands follow to caress the muscled planes of his back. He loves the way she touches him, like she wants to memorize him the same way he wants to do to her. It’s reciprocal, and it makes him weak.

By the time he reaches the apex of her thighs, he’s done with teasing her. They both want the same thing and he doesn’t want to keep her waiting longer. There’s time enough for more games, more seduction, but they’ve had hours of anticipation, of wondering, by now. He’s taken his time with her and it’s left her quivering under him, her hands in his curls, and his mouth on her cunt.

She tastes sweet here, too, just as tart and tangy as her mouth had been. But there’s something else; it’s that dark and heady musk of want that makes Jon groan as he swipes his tongue up her slit. He keeps up a steady rhythm, and busies his hands, too — they move up her body, feel her up, tweak her nipples, hold tight to her hips; they come back down to smooth over her thighs, to hitch one leg over his shoulder, so that she’s more open to him, so he can find every corner that he wants to mark with his name.

He pushes his tongue inside of her, and traces letters to see which one’s gonna make her fall apart for him:  _A, B, C…_

He keeps going, and her hips rotate as she follows him for every swipe, every push, every muffled curse when he needs a second to collect himself. He’s already rutting against the sheets for some kind of relief. He’s not going to make it through twenty-six letters before he absolutely has to fuck her, so he tries words instead.

“I want to make you come so bad, Sansa,” Jon confesses, as if it hadn’t been obvious this entire time. But he should tell her, anyway; he should tell her every reverent, adoring, filthy thought that comes to his mind whenever she’s on it. “Wanna feel you come apart for me, sweetheart. I wanna know everything you like, wanna do all of it whenever you want me. Because I’m gonna want you all the _fucking_ _time_ …”

The lower, gruffer his voice gets, the more muffled his words as he eats her pussy with a vigorous sort of hunger and fascination, the harder she pulls his hair. She must like this possessive side of him, this all-encompassing ache for her, and for her to want him just the same. Jon’s a needy son of a bitch, he discovers, and Sansa’s giving him all those things he needs so much.

He squeezes her thigh, then moves up to grasp her arse when she arches in response to the way he flicks his tongue around her clit. Not too much — he wants to make her come, not pass out. Knocking her unconscious with his mouth might sound appealing on some level but, come on, in truth it would be terrifying. He’d much rather hear her shout his name.

 _Fuck_ , but he’s losing his mind over this girl.

But that’s alright — more than — when she loses control for him in turn.

Her hands tighten just as her cunt does, and Jon’s lapping at her sweet release as she cries out his name, just as he’d wanted.

He wants all of her, so badly it’s as though he’s been starving for her since before they’d even met, and when they had he had just _known_ , right away, and he couldn’t wait another minute to be with her. It’s just, it’s Sansa — in his heart, in his head, in every part of him. It had all clicked, the moment she’d ducked into the doorway that late afternoon. He hadn’t expected it to happen so immediately, but it had swooped in and given him exactly what he wanted, when he’d never before been able to properly articulate what that was.

Now, he knows. It’s Sansa. It’s _everything_.

“There you are,” he soothes her through the aftershocks, touching her all the while. “There’s my girl. You’re so good for me, Sansa, so fucking good…”

“I want you,” she pants above him, “so much, _immediately_ , please.”

As if she even had to ask.

Jon scrambles to help her remove her dress, her bra, while Sansa tugs at his belt. He kicks his jeans off, somehow, miraculously, as she sucks on his neck. He can hardly so much as think straight when she does that, he’s learned, but like hell is he about to stop her.

He spreads his hands over her naked stomach, marveling at her softness, how she reacts to his hands on her. He knows he reacts the same, shuddering when she skims a feather-light touch down his sides. It’s like they’re feeding off of each other, giving and taking without a question, because there’s nothing uncertain about this, about them.

He wants to see her. But there’s something to this, too — something teasing and enticing about having her this first time in the dark.

There are condoms in his bedside table, a whole unopened pack of them. Theon thinks it’s some great laugh to leave a box there whenever Jon’s having a self-imposed dry spell. Jon’s never found it funny in the slightest, but that’s fine by him if it means he can fuck Sansa an uninterrupted dozen times now.

He could do it, too, if she’s up for it. He’s got stamina. And frankly, one mere look at Sansa could get him going again whenever she’s ready, so a dozen times in a row really isn’t out of the realm of possibility.

They’ll start out with one and see what happens.

When they’re both ready, Jon pulls her onto his lap. “I want you to ride me. But I’ll take you any way you want, just tell me.”

Sansa touches his face, rubbing tenderly at the coarse hair on his cheeks. “I want you like this, too.”

Christ, he’s going to fall in love with her.

They start off slowly. Jon holds her hips to keep them both steady as he eases his way inside of her, but then she tells him _harder_ and his final vestiges of control snap, they’re done for. He growls out her name — “ _Sansa_ , fuck” — and thrusts up into her harsh and fast, like she asked, and he doesn’t let up.

They’re a flurry of clinging limbs and hot, harried kisses. Sansa tells him how she wants him, and Jon gives her back filthy endearments that make her ride him harder. She pulls his hair, angling his head to deepen their kisses, even when they’re short on breath and Jon just wants to make her come again. He wants to keep kissing her, keep touching her, he wants all of it with her and then some. 

He flips their positions, rolling her to her back so he can have complete control, so he can do this right without well and truly losing his fucking mind first. His mouth slants back over hers as he moves with deep, measured thrusts. She hikes a leg over his hip, and he pulls it ‘round his waist to take her more and more and _more_.

“You gonna come for me again?” Jon finds it easy to choose the right words now, shrouded in darkness, with Sansa’s long lovely legs around him, and her pleasure on the line. “I want to make you, want your cunt even tighter around my cock, sweetheart.”

He swivels his hips, then drives harder up into her. She gasps, and her nails scratch at his back as she holds him tight.

“Keep doing that,” Sansa instructs. “ _Yes_ — just like that, Jon, I’ll come for you again, just don’t stop.”

No fucking way he would.

He makes sure she peaks first — tightening, arching up, sighing and crying out his name again, over and over — before he loses his finesse altogether as he chases his own orgasm. He’s been so wound-up for Sansa that it doesn’t take long until her name mingles with his, all low and rough and relieved, yet still so needful.

Because, Jon thinks, that’s what this is — he needs her. He’d been looking for it, for his _The_ _One_ , without ever expecting that it would really happen, and the gods had given in and sent her on her way.

Maybe it’s not all as predetermined or fateful as that. But when Jon pushes the hair from her face and drops another kiss to her lips, long and slow and tender, when Sansa clings to him just the same way, he thinks that maybe, in fact, it is.

After, when he’s disposed of the condom, they’re tangled up together in his sheets. He’d cracked his window open to let the breeze in. The air in Dorne is warm as over, but right now it feels delightfully cool against their sweat-slickened skin.

Jon presses languorous kisses up Sansa’s arm to her shoulder. “I hope you weren’t thinking of going back to your hotel tonight.”

“Mm, no, I wasn’t. I think I get a much better deal here,” she says lightly, playfully. She stops his wandering mouth with hers, just for a second. “Even without the complimentary breakfast.”

“Oh, you’re getting breakfast,” Jon assures her, as his hand massages her hip. He nudges her closer. “You’ll need your energy. I’ve only just started showing you what I can do, and I’ve got a whole course-load of material to share with you.”

“That so?” Sansa smiles. He can’t see it, but he feels it when she presses it to the underside of his jaw. It makes him want to nuzzle into her hair, so he does. “Lucky me.”

 _Oh, no_ , Jon thinks when he gets to kiss her again, _turns out I’m far luckier by half than I ever knew_.

The late-night wind keeps on dancing in through the window, following every stroke of his hands as they explore the curves of her naked skin. They’ve got all night (and, fuck it, a few of Jon’s sick days, too), and he’s going to use every minute.

He’s about to take his time with her, and when they’ve finished, he’s going to do it all over again.

 

* * *

 

**JON SNOW is In a Relationship with SANSA STARK**

_102 likes_  
_24 comments_

Jon can’t bring himself to read them in their entirety. It’s all Theon or various family members shouting at him. Not in a bad way, mind, they’re just… exuberant.

That’s what Sansa says, anyway. Sweetly diplomatic as ever. His family really doesn’t deserve her, but Jon reckons he does well enough, so it balances out. Sort of.

He feels better when Sansa shows him the comments on her post. They’re not much more civilized. In fact, someone called Arya wants him to know that she’s a champion gymnast, which apparently means she could kill him with one well-placed high kick, so he’d better watch himself.

If Jon hadn’t already planned on it, he certainly would now. Sansa relays that message to her sister, who seems pleased with him after that. But that’s about as far as responses go, as Jon doesn’t have a thing to say to the rest of them.

The text messages, however, refuse to be ignored.

 *****  

 **THEON** : well…… well…… WELL

 **JON** : Oh, piss off.

 **THEON** : been a whole three weeks and you’re already professing your love all over the internet  
i don’t even know who you are anymore

 **JON** : You’re the one who set us up!

 **THEON** : set you up? moi?? no no, my friend, i was merely my usual negligent self, giving sansa the wrong time to meet me and then bailing on our dinner plans and spending the better part of the past six months showing off photos of you in which you just happen to be bathed in the most flattering of lights  
i think sansa would call this fate, actually

 **JON** : I’ll call it anything she wants me to, I just assume you want credit for it any which way.

 **THEON** : i’d pretend to be shocked and appalled that you’d think so little of me, but  
who am i kidding? GIVE ME YOUR ACCOLADES

 **JON** : *gives accolades*

 **THEON** : i love them

 **JON** : Treasure them forever.  
I wish you both a long and happy life.

 **THEON** : lmao back at you

 **JON** : Look who’s getting sappy in his old age.

 **THEON** : look whose best mates are mad about each other  
i’ve earned this sap, you broody arse

 **JON** : _typing…_

 **THEON** : don’t say that thing about how much sansa likes your arse  
you two are freaks  
i mean it’s a perfectly normal proclivity and all but  
you both tell me about it way, way too much  
and that’s coming from me, of all people  
ME

 **JON** : Duly noted.

 **THEON** : ffs thank you

 *****  

 **OBERYN** : _typing…_

 **JON** : Don’t.

 **OBERYN** : Whatever do you mean?

 **JON** : YOU KNOW

 **OBERYN** : I do not. I did ask Ellaria, though, and she says I delight in braggadocio. You know I’m never one to disagree with mi amor, so I suppose she must have a point.

 **JON** : That is the fanciest ‘I told you so’ I’ve ever heard.

 **OBERYN** : Well, I *did* tell you, didn’t I?  
I’ll refrain from saying so further if you agree to bring your Northern flower to dinner this weekend. Everyone is dying to meet the lovely young woman who melted the ice man’s heart.

 **JON** : _typing…_

 **JON** : ICE MAN ?????

*****

**LYANNA** : Don’t listen to your uncle.

 **JON** : Bit hard not to, Mum. He talks……… s o much.

 **LYANNA** : He’s only teasing. You know how he gets.

 **JON** : I’ll be drinking heavily before dinner, I hope you know.  
Sansa’s already said it’s alright, so there’s really no talking me out of it now.

 **LYANNA** : You say that like everyone here won’t be drinking heavily the entire time. I thought we raised you better than that.

 **JON** : Just leave me here to either emotionally prepare for this weekend or DIE.  
Dying is a distinct possibility.

 **LYANNA** : Now, don’t you go dying when you’ve finally met someone.  
I’m so happy for you, Jon. And so pleased to be meeting her.

 **JON** : I’m happy too, Mum. You’re going to love her just as much as I do.

 **LYANNA** : It’s love already, is it?

 **JON** : Well, I don’t know, but…

 **JON** :  _typing…_

 **JON** : Alright.  
I know.

 *****  

 **AEGON** : that’s a pretty girlfriend you’ve found yourself there

 **JON** : Say one fucking word to her and I’ll shave your precious hair off while you sleep.

 **AEGON** : OY  
unnecessary aggression much???

 **RHAENYS** : Relax jon, i’ve already hidden his mandolin and if he ever wants to see it again he’ll be on his best behavior when you bring sansa over

 **JON** : Much obliged. You’ve got a free bottle of Arbor Gold coming your way.

 **RHAENYS** : Ahhhh it sure pays to not be a dick

 **AEGON** : ???????  
can’t say a goddamn word in this family, i s2g………

*****

**JON** : I’m not ready for this.

 **SANSA** : By ‘this,’ I assume you mean introducing me to your family.  
You know, if we hadn’t had the same conversation a dozen times by now, I might be really offended that you don’t want me to meet them.

 **JON** : It’s got nothing to do with YOU.  
*You* are perfect.  
*They* are… questionable at best.

 **SANSA** : I’ve dealt with far worse people in my life, I’m sure. Besides, Ellaria came into the shop this morning, and she’s so lovely.

 **JON** :  _t_ _yping…_

 **JON** : Ellaria did WHAT

 **SANSA** : She ordered a few dresses and, ah, other things.

 **JON** : ‘Other things’ ?? What is that?

 **SANSA** : As she’s sort of related to you, I imagine you don’t want to know.

 **JON** :  _typing…_

 **JON** : Oh.  
Ew.  
No.  
Wait.  
You sell lingerie??

 **SANSA** : Well, we thought we’d try it out. We did set up base here in Dorne, so we thought it might do decently in sales.

 **JON** : _typing…_

 **SANSA** : It makes me so nervous when you do that.

 **JON** : I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I’ll stop at once.  
I just wondered if I could maybe  
Could I see some?  
Of the lingerie, I mean  
With you in it  
Obviously  
What’s the point if you’re not wearing it, I ask you

 **SANSA** : That depends.

 **JON** : On what? Name it. Consider it done.

 **SANSA** : I need you to relax about dinner with your family.

 **JON** : Sansa, if you let me do things to you in your handmade lingerie, I’ll be relaxed about everything for the rest of my life.

 **SANSA** : I can hardly say no to that, can I?

 **JON** : I mean, you could, and I’d still respect and adore you immensely.

 **SANSA** : _typing…_

 **SANSA** : _typing…_

 **JON** : Now who’s making who nervous???

 **SANSA** : Call me, please.  
I don’t want to tell you that I love you for the first time via text message.

 **JON** : _typing…_

 **SANSA** : Oh, bugger, I’ve just gone and done it, haven’t I?

 **JON** : WOMAN  
TURN YOUR RINGER ON

 *****  

Twenty-nine years after Jon is born, and not so many fewer since he’d sworn off love forever, he finds just what he’d been pining for all along, even when he wouldn’t admit it to himself: The love of his life. Sansa. The person who’d torn down his walls right alongside him, so that he could let her in.

And he’d met her, of all places, in the midst of a lecture on how to get a girl to come with her legs around your shoulders.

Once, Jon had fancied the notion to be a ridiculous one. Now, though, he’s made her come like that, oh, approximately fifty-three times, but…

Well. Who’s counting, right?


End file.
